


Four-Letter Words

by idiopathicsmile



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Also maybe the most wholesome?, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Angst, Head's up this is probably the filthiest thing I've ever written, M/M, Mutual Pining, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 22:15:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19343734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiopathicsmile/pseuds/idiopathicsmile
Summary: Prompt: "humiliation kink by way of compliment, Aziraphale gets Crowley hot and bothered by accusing him of goodness."It’s a chilly day in November of 1987, and Aziraphale badly wants a drink.





	Four-Letter Words

It’s a chilly day in November of 1987, and Aziraphale badly wants a drink.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s been a bit, well, peevish ever since Thatcher was elected. Which is ridiculous, of course--Aziraphale has successfully withstood countless plagues, crusades, and inquisitions, two World Wars, and the rise of televangelism; surely he can tolerate a few more years of a duly elected leader with some less-than-encouraging policies.

Still, yesterday a would-be customer had managed to misplace a newspaper in the shop before being properly urged back out, and glancing at the headlines had been a definite mistake.

No respectable angel can root for the success of the enemy in any situation, of course, but when it comes to current events, sometimes Aziraphale finds himself clinging to the possibility of demonic intervention. He knows very well that mortals are capable of committing atrocities entirely on their own, but still, a part of him always hopes there is more to the story than simply humans deciding to be horrible to each other once again.

It can get awfully tiring, hope.

Point being, when Aziraphale steps into a dingy pub near his shop--one with absolutely nothing to recommend it, other than convenience--and his eyes first take in the unmistakable form of Crowley leaning against the counter, black-clad and long-legged as ever, he feels a sudden surge of relief and gratitude so profound as to be a bit embarrassing. They can have a drink together, and Crowley will say something outrageous and Aziraphale will scramble for any appropriate response at all, and before either of them know it, one drink will become several bottles and the evening will be subsumed into genial argument, the steps familiar and choreographed as any dance.

(Oh, how Aziraphale misses the gavotte. A spot of healthy physical exertion would be just the thing to shake himself out of this blue mood, no imposing upon an agent of Hell necessary. But it’s been a century, no sign of a revival in sight, and one can hardly dance a gavotte alone.)

“Crowley!” Aziraphale calls.

When Crowley turns, there is no wry smirk, none of that usual spark of mischief that surfaces when their paths happen to collide. He’s looking rather tired as well. But something in the demon’s posture seems to relax at seeing Aziraphale standing before him.

“Angel,” says Crowley, raising his glass. He steps to the side, already making room. It’s been a few years since they last met, not too long by their standards. Aziraphale tries not to smile. He doesn’t succeed. He might not have been trying all that hard.

But Crowley is not his usual provoking self. He downs the first half of his drink in something close to grim silence. Aziraphale isn’t sure what to say. Trying to cheer up a demon is far beyond his job description, and yet he finds himself searching his memory for something comforting when Crowley says, bleakly,

“D’you suppose we’re finally nearing it?”

“Nearing what?” says Aziraphale.

“The End,” Crowley replies, capital letters clear in his voice. “Cold War, nuclear proliferation. _Foosh_ ,” he mimes an explosion. “ _Gahhh_ ,” he adds, which Aziraphale surmises is meant to be the sound of humanity’s last moments of suffering.

In a strange way, it’s easier to be cheerful when one has something dour to push against. Crowley would call that sheer bloody-mindedness, but it’s true nonetheless.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, drawing himself up. “Oh, no, I don’t think so. I would’ve gotten some warning from upstairs. Hardly the sort of thing they’d overlook.”

Crowley shrugs. “Could be a clerical error,” he says, but it’s half-hearted.

“Have you heard anything from--your people?” Aziraphale asks delicately.

A shake of the head.

“There, then,” says Aziraphale. “Just another Thursday, like so many Thursdays before.” He finishes his drink, a light refreshing Moscato. (Surely turning beer into wine hardly counts as a miracle at all.) “They wouldn’t forget to tell us _both_ ,” he adds, and Crowley gives this a considering look.

Aziraphale goes to clap him on the shoulder. Crowley generally seems to appreciate physical contact, although it’s not the sort of thing he’d ever admit. Bad for the image. Demons can’t go around asking for hugs.

Tonight, Crowley leans into Aziraphale’s palm just a little. He must truly be under the weather, poor thing.

“You know,” Aziraphale starts, “there’s a cafe just down the road that does the most amazing cakes--”

Crowley has never shown much enthusiasm for food beyond an experimental bite every century or so, but he has also never turned down an offer to visit a dining establishment of any kind, so Aziraphale supposes he must find the experience worthwhile for whatever mystifying reason.

Sure enough, Crowley nods.

Something about the motion reminds Aziraphale that he has neglected to remove his hand from Crowley’s shoulder. His thumb is doing little strokes across the collarbone. He gives himself a shake and steps back.

Crowley pretends not to notice, which is a kind of mercy. Instead he swallows the rest of his drink in one go and tips his head to the side.

“Cakes, you say?”

 

The waitress is a young woman. This is only relevant because the man at the table next to them, a leering red-faced banker in a shiny suit, seems dead-set on making himself a pest. Aziraphale will admit that most of the time he does not have trouble tuning out the rest of the world when it comes to cakes (and Crowley, if he’s being honest), but the shiny-suited man is so _loud_ in his attempts to bother the poor girl that it is hard to focus on anything else. The banker has already made a number of suggestive comments about buns. A muscle in her jaw is beginning to twitch.

“Really,” Aziraphale huffs as the man beckons her closer, ostensibly to hear her better, but in actuality to look down her shirt. It’s hard to appreciate even a very good slice of battenberg under such circumstances. He pitches his voice to carry. “There is such a thing as _decency_.”

“Hm,” says Crowley. There is a pause. Behind those infernal shades, Aziraphale somehow gets the impression of narrowed eyes.

The man screams and falls off his chair. He lands on the floor with a thunk and begins to roll around, still screaming. The waitress looks almost relieved as she steps away, presumably to call her manager.

Aziraphale fights the urge to snort. “Any inkling as to what that was all about?” he says mildly.

“Struck with the sudden belief that all his hair had turned to maggots,” says Crowley. “Or you know. Just guessing. Listen, do you have any cash on you? We should slip her a few extra quid. Compensation for damages suffered, et cetera.” He waves a hand.

For the first time in ages, Aziraphale feels a certain lightness bubbling within. “What a lovely idea,” he says, reaching for his pocketbook. “I should have thought of that but I’m so glad you did. Terribly good of you, really.”

When he looks back up, Crowley has gone oddly still. “Don’t say that,” Crowley grits out.

Aziraphale frowns. “Nobody of consequence can hear, but I’m sorry if I--are you _blushing_?”

“Demons can’t _blush_ ,” Crowley hisses, “we’re the _definition_ of shameless.”

Only then, at Crowley’s obvious mortification, does Aziraphale realize his faux pas. “Er, sorry?” Aziraphale offers. “I only meant to say--”

“Well, don’t say it,” Crowley says again. Rasps, almost.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale assures him.

Crowley sucks in a long breath. “Don’t say it _in public._ ”

“What, can I tell you how good you are _in private,_ then?” The thought appeals as much as it confuses.

Crowley makes a noise. It is, Aziraphale would swear upon a stack of first-edition bibles, sort of a whimper.

Oh.

_Oh._

 

In the summer of 1969, for an extremely brief period, Aziraphale had harbored a certain optimism about the power of free love.

Crowley and Aziraphale had shared so much together, so many confessions and joys and sorrows, so much history, so many late nights, that it had seemed almost absurd they had never known each other in a more physical sense.

Aziraphale is not the best at picking up on such things, but by the late sixties he had begun to perceive what might have been some potential interest coming from Crowley. There were moments here and there, dining together, enjoying the last few bites of this or that, when Aziraphale felt distinctly _watched_. Coming from a demon, this should have been disconcerting and not strangely pleasurable, but Aziraphale tries as a rule not to interrogate his pleasures.

Sharing a table, knees almost brushing, feeling Crowley’s eyes on him, thinking of the millennia they had followed this dance, Aziraphale had felt--he had thought, perhaps--

Well. In short, sex had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Aziraphale had harbored no illusions that this would change things between them. He had not hoped. Wondered, maybe--nobody could help wondering. But the next time they saw each other, Crowley had greeted him with the same insouciant amusement as ever, as if they had never lain skin to skin, as if Aziraphale didn’t know how Crowley’s mouth tasted, as if Aziraphale had never heard Crowley gasp roughly, “please-- _please_ ,” as if none of it had been much more than a lark, and so that was that: the resolution to a question Aziraphale had not particularly wanted answered.

They’ve coupled again, several times since then. Indulging that sort of want is a bad idea, but then, so is a third bottle of wine or an extra slice of cake. Aziraphale’s track record on such matters speaks for itself.

All of which is to say, the concept of departing from the cafe in favor of, say, the slightly cluttered bedroom above Aziraphale’s bookshop to chase the thread of Crowley’s interesting reaction to praise is not unheard-of. Rare, but not unheard-of.

A bad idea, but really, Aziraphale is so _tired_.

“Shall we, then?” he says, and Crowley nods, emphatic.

In his hurry to leave, Aziraphale accidentally tips the waitress a fifty.

  


“Is there anything I should be certain not to say?” Aziraphale asks, once they are back in his flat. Crowley startles a bit from where he is circling the room like a very awkward hawk. The walk to the book shop had been quiet; the fleeting prospect of the end of the world appears to have really and truly knocked Crowley off-kilter. Aziraphale, on the other hand, has already put it mostly out of his mind.

Crowley pokes at a paperweight. “Isn’t that the opposite of the point?” he says. There’s snark in his tone but something else, too. Something unmoored. Aziraphale vows to be as, well, _mooring_ as possible.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” says Aziraphale lightly. “Just because you want to hear some things, hardly means you want to hear _anything_. One can be hungry for custard but not, say, boiled cabbage.” He nods to himself, pleased at the metaphor.

“I think I can handle your worst, angel,” Crowley snaps.

“You shouldn’t have to,” Aziraphale says with a frown. “Surely the goal is humiliation, not torture.”

Crowley is pacing again, both hands in his hair. He laughs, a little wildly.

Aziraphale remains firm. “For my own peace of mind then,” he says to Crowley’s back, “so I don’t spend the whole evening _worrying_ —”

Crowley pauses, mid-step. He clears his throat. Strictly speaking, ageless supernatural beings never need to clear their throats, but Aziraphale knows from experience it can be a useful stall.

“Don’t imply I can be redeemed,” Crowley says softly.

Aziraphale feels as if he has been struck forcefully on the sternum. He swallows hard past the sensation. “Oh,” he makes himself say, “wouldn’t dream of it.”

Given the opportunity, Crowley will start pacing again. Best to head these things off at the pass. Aziraphale sits on the bed. He knows the mattress is narrow and lumpy only because Crowley has complained about it. He’s considered investing in a better one, but that seems uncomfortably telling, somehow.

“Come here,” Aziraphale says. He makes his voice as commanding as he can, which is not very, in all honesty. Crowley goes anyway, allows himself to be hauled onto Aziraphale’s lap, straddling his thighs. The resulting tangle of limbs should be comical. It isn’t.

Crowley leans in, kisses him with an edge of desperation. Aziraphale indulges him for some time. It’s not a hardship.

Presently, he makes himself sit back.

“Ah ah ah,” says Aziraphale, scolding. “Easy does it.” He presses their lips together, almost chaste. “Like that,” he says. Crowley follows suit, hesitant at first, and then they are trading light, careful kisses. “See,” Aziraphale murmurs, “isn’t this nice.” He smooths a hand down Crowley’s back. Crowley is shaking, ever so slightly. “Aren’t you good at this.” He’d kiss Crowley’s eyelids if it wasn’t for those horrible sunglasses. He contents himself with Crowley’s cheekbones and forehead instead, his lips, the hollow of his throat. “So gentle. So _sweet_.”

“Fuck off,” says Crowley, breathy.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Do you think that makes you sound tough,” he says. “Do you think it makes you sound _dangerous_? Oh, my dear.” Another chuckle. Another kiss. “You poor thing. Never for one moment of my life have I been remotely afraid of you, did you know that?”

He can hear Crowley’s heart hammering, feel him growing hard where they’re pressed together.

“That was so kind, the way you helped the waitress tonight,” Aziraphale continues. “Such a generous instinct.”

“I was tormenting the banker,” Crowley protests.

“You know,” says Aziraphale, “I’m not even sure _you_ believe that.” No response but Crowley’s harsh breathing. “How often do you go around performing good deeds when nobody’s there to notice, just your little secret?” He drags his mouth to Crowley’s ear, whispers, “or do you hope someone _will_ notice, see what you really are at your core? How soft and pure and _good_ you can be?”

Crowley gives a full-body shudder and thrusts, involuntary, against him.

“’m a demon,” Crowley pants.

“You are.” Aziraphale kisses his temple, lets his voice go dark. “So, really, there’s no excuse at all, is there? You are, without doubt, the sweetest, kindest, gentlest demon in all of creation.”

Crowley shudders. He groans. “S--say that again,” he mutters. He is absolutely blushing. “Say that—ah—“

“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale breathes, and Crowley makes a keening sound in the back of his throat and comes just like that, fully clothed on Aziraphale’s lap.

Somewhere in the room, a clock ticks. Cars swish by outside. Aziraphale is sharply aware that they can’t spend the rest of their lives inside this moment, Crowley’s forehead heavy against his shoulder. At some point, they will have to move. At some point, they will have to look each other in the face again.

He cannot, for the life of him, think of what to _say_.

“You’re still--” Crowley starts. He sounds wrecked. Surprisingly so, considering how little was spoken and how quickly it all transpired. Aziraphale is so focused on that, he does not immediately follow _what_ is still--

Crowley ducks out of Aziraphale’s loose hold, and then he’s kneeling on the floor between Aziraphale’s legs, working the buttons on Aziraphale’s trousers with shaking fingers.

“You don’t have to,” Aziraphale says, or begins to say, before Crowley’s hot, clever mouth descends, robbing him of words entirely.

 

After, Crowley remains there, on his knees. Aziraphale gazes down at the crown of Crowley’s bowed head, the nape of Crowley’s neck, and is hit by a wave of almost violent tenderness. Whatever has just passed between them, whatever Crowley has shown him tonight, it could not under any circumstances be described as _a lark_. He cards one hand through Crowley’s hair.

Crowley pulls away. He does not look up.

Aziraphale had wondered, once, if sex might change something between them. It hadn’t, but he has the terrible notion that _this_ sex might. An orgasm can disperse the haze of arousal, but it does nothing for humiliation, and Crowley is not without pride.

The thought of going even another decade without seeing him again, without his lithe, easy presence turning up just when Aziraphale needs it most--

Aziraphale stares at the wall. He can taste the words _what was that all about_ on his tongue and he breathes in through his nose, forcing them back down. Instead, he summons all the generosity and restraint and selflessness at his disposal. He can do this. He's an angel, after all.

“We, ah, don’t need to speak of that again, if you prefer,” he says.

There is a long pause. Crowley pulls himself to his feet, dusts himself off, adjusts his sunglasses. “Speak of what,” he says. He walks another wide circuit of the room, enough time for Aziraphale to put his own clothes to rights, and then adds, offhanded, “Got anything to drink?”

 

Aziraphale is not prone to reflection. He tries not to be. Still, in the years that follow, he will find himself, every now and then, thinking back to that night in his flat, wondering if there had been another way to handle it, Crowley on his knees like that, the strange electricity surrounding the two of them. Wondering if Aziraphale could have made a different offer, a better offer, if another opportunity will ever present itself.

More than two decades later and shortly before the end of the world, at a paintball range in Tadfield, Aziraphale tosses out the word _nice_ without even thinking about it, and Crowley’s response is to shove him against a wall and hiss in his face, so there’s one question settled.

It’s almost a relief. Hope really does exhaust a fellow.

 

Except. _Except_. It’s trite to say, but the Apocalypse has a way of putting things into perspective.

 

Shortly after the end of the world, following an exceptionally lovely lunch at the Ritz and a sojourn back to Aziraphale’s new bed, Crowley looks up from where he’s been sucking a trail of careful bruises onto Aziraphale’s inner thighs to say, in a voice that stunningly fails at offhandedness on every conceivable level,

“‘F you don’t mind, maybe you could, uh, call me good again?”

Aziraphale strokes the hair away from Crowley’s eyes--his beautiful golden eyes--and smiles the smile of a man with a vast and luxurious feast laid out before him.

“My dear,” he says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're going to write extremely self-indulgent idfic, you might as well set it on your birthday. (Alternate title: "Aziraphale and Crowley are sad it's the 1980's so they have weird sex.")
> 
> Observant readers might have noticed there is not a single word to describe Crowley's 1980's style. This is because part of me wants to imagine that he looked at all hot during the events of this story, and another, larger part, is fairly certain this is impossible.
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [idiopathicsmile](http://idiopathicsmile.tumblr.com) but a more relevant link in this case would be the ~extremely secret NSFWish fandom blog I co-run, [wholesome-revelry](http://wholesome-revelry.tumblr.com).


End file.
